


A Scene Misplaced

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angry John, Baby Names, Crack, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Deleted Scenes, Drabble, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Flash Fic, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Friendship, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, M/M, Mage!Molly, Mage!Sherlock, Mages and Templars, Marriage, Memoirs, Missing Scene, Money, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Qunlat, Reading, Romance, Social Justice John, Templar!John, Too much information, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Video Game Mechanics, Words & Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of missing/deleted/random scenes from the Circleverse.  Short, miscellaneous adventures, not necessarily in chronological order.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Friend in Need

**Author's Note:**

> _Unlike the other stories in this 'verse, this one is not yet complete; since this is going to be a repository for “missing” and “deleted” scenes, as well as random ficlets that aren't long enough to be standalone stories, I'll be updating this one if and when I feel like it. If there are any scenes you'd like to see (insert your own_ Mock the Week _reference), please let me know! I'll gladly see what I can do for you. :) (Depending on the prompt, your request could either end up in here or become its own fic.)_
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** _I own nothing you see here, but I still love it as if I do._

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened when John received Lestrade's letter from “An Old Friend” and told Finn his best friend hadn't died?

John stared at the letter in his hand, eyes fixed on a certain phrase in a certain passage. He could read the words, he could grasp their meaning, he just couldn't seem to process them.

_That other mage you told me about, Surana? She didn't die at Ostagar!_

He swallowed hard. He knew Lestrade like a brother, knew his friend wouldn't make such a claim unless he were absolutely sure. This...this changed everything. Arya Surana was not only alive and well, but was traveling around Ferelden, doing what she'd always been good at: helping people and keeping out of trouble.

His eyes drifted further down to a different sentence in the same passage:

_I think she's going to be paying the Tower a visit in the near future..._

And what was more, she might be coming back.

John shook his head, trying to clear the fog of gobsmacked disbelief. _Snap out of it! You barely even knew her name; you could hardly call yourself her acquaintance, let alone her friend –_

Wait a minute. Her friend. Her best and nearly only friend.

He wracked his brain for a minute. What was his name again?

Florian – no, Finn – Aldebrant.

John folded the letter, tucked it into his belt, and strode out of the templar quarters. He was off-duty, but no one thought much of a templar patrolling as they liked, provided they didn't try to pad the roster or anything. There was someone he needed to find immediately.

 o~O~o

Locating Finn didn't prove difficult. There was practically only one place he could always be found when not eating or sleeping: the library. After a few minutes of searching, he found the mage seated alone at a secluded table, surrounded by books stacked well above his head. John noticed the depleted shelves and heard the enthusiastic scribbling of a quill well before he even came near the table.

“Hello, Finn.”

The young mage jumped, sending the tip of his pen across his parchment and leaving a rather startling black line through part of his notes. He didn't seem to notice as he looked up to see his visitor, a cheerful grin curving his small mouth. “Oh, hello Ser Watson! How are you today?”

John had to smile as well; Finn was one of perhaps three or four mages, senior or apprentice, who actually knew all the templars by name, and for the right reasons. “Fine, thanks. I'd like to talk to you for a minute. Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, not at all – nothing that can't wait for a bit.” Finn shut his book and turned to John, bright and eager. “What can I help you with, ser? Would you like to know about the lineage of the magister lord of your choosing? Do you need a runestone translated? Or is the prophetess Eleni being cryptic again?”

John chuckled at his enthusiasm. “Maybe some other time. Right now I want to talk to you about your friend Arya.”

“Oh?” Finn's manner was still friendly, but more guarded now. “What do you want to know about her?”

_Plenty_ , John wanted to say, but didn't. “Actually, it's regarding what _you_ don't know about _her_.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” Finn's tone had an edge of uncharacteristic defensiveness; John could only imagine the slander he'd had to deflect in the wake of her exile and supposed death.

“She's not dead, Finn.”

Finn stared at him for several long moments. “What do you mean by that?”

John was sure Finn had heard many “She lives inside you” and “She's not dead as long as she's remembered” platitudes before now. He'd heard much the same after some of his own losses. “I mean, she survived Ostagar, and she's traveling around Ferelden right now.”

Finn was silent again; John almost wished there were others around to witness the rare occurrence. “Ser Watson, if this is your idea of a joke –”

“Finn, I wouldn't joke about something like this. I swear in the name of Andraste, Arya is alive.”

Finn's incredulity only grew. “How – how do you know?”

“A friend.” John pulled the letter from his belt and laid it on the table. Unfolding it, he pointed to the relevant paragraph. “Greg Lestrade is a member of the Blackstone Irregulars. I'd told him about Arya not long after she...left the Tower. He just told me she and her friends have been helping out his organization.”

Finn was quiet as he read the indicated passage, any remaining vestiges of color slowly draining from his already pale features. “He's positive that it's her?”

“Finn, I served with him in the city guard for three years, and we've been friends for much longer. He wouldn't tell me something like this unless he were absolutely certain. He looked up her name and everything.”

Finn only nodded a little as he read and reread the letter. He stared at the parchment as if willing the words to come to life. John was about to say something else when he heard Finn muttering under his breath.

He leaned a little closer, but there was soon no need as Finn's voice slowly rose, his words gradually becoming clearer and louder, until he let out an exalted cry John was sure the whole library could hear.

“She's alive, she's _alive!_ ”

Then he leaped from his chair and threw his arms around John.

Finn was the lighter of the two, but he was also a good half a head taller than John, and John, caught off-guard, had to struggle momentarily to keep his balance. Finn pulled away then, quickly making sure the templar was stable on both feet. “Oh, I'm sorry, Ser Watson, it's just –”

John waved a hand dismissively, his grin returning; Finn's joy was infectious. “Don't worry about it, Finn, I understand.”

Finn quickly lowered his voice. “Of course you do! That's why you told me, isn't it? Oh, thank you, thank you, Ser Watson! Thank you a thousand times over! You don't know what this means to me, to know she's alive. And what's more, she's making a difference. She's _helping_ people.” His dark eyes misted over. “That's what she always said she'd do, if she ever got out of here. Maybe it wasn't ideal...but still. I don't know how I can ever repay you for what you've done.”

John shrugged. “I was just doing the right thing.”

“Yes, well, some people in this tower have very different ideas about what that means. That was one reason she tried to help – Jowan.” The name seemed to leave a bitter taste in Finn's mouth. He looked serious for a moment before perking up again. “You didn't even really know her, or me, but you still went out of your way to tell me. That's the kind of behavior she always admired. She would have – no, she _would_ like you, Ser Watson.”

“Thank you, Finn,” John said, touched. “And believe me, I wish I had known her.”

“Well, maybe you'll get the chance. After all, the letter does say she might be coming back.” Finn looked thoughtful. “Though I don't imagine it will be for long. She's a Grey Warden now, so she can go anywhere she wants...” He trailed off, seeming to have realized something. Without warning, he sank back into his chair. “Wait, something's wrong here.”

“What is it?”

“It's been...” Finn consulted the letter, then quickly counted on his fingers, “...four months since she left, in mid-Eluviesta, and just a little less than that since the Battle of Ostagar.” He stared off into space, his expression sinking. “Why didn't she try to contact me, to let me know she was all right?”

“I don't know, Finn,” John said gently. “Only she can answer that. Though there's no telling how long she was in recovery following Ostagar. Not to mention all the terrible rumors about the Wardens – she may have felt it was best to lie low for a while.”

Finn considered for a few moments, then looked up and nodded. “You make good points, ser. Well, it doesn't really matter. What's important is that she's _alive_ , and she might return here! But even if I never see her again, even if she never writes, I know she'll be fine. It'll take more than a battle to take her down.”

“What makes you say that?”

Finn's smile was softer now, more affectionate and reminiscent. “She's my best friend, Ser Watson. No one knows her like I do.”

 o~O~o

Excerpt from the letter John wrote to Lestrade the following day:

_Thank you, thank you so much for telling me about Surana. I told Finn, her best friend, and I haven't seen him so overjoyed since we received our last book shipment. He knows he still might never see or even hear from her again, but at least he knows she's alive. I can't imagine anything worse than believing someone you love is dead when they aren't._


	2. A Templar's Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least one of the templars thinks the mages earned their deaths following the destruction of the Circle. John begs to differ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This deleted scene from “A Small Sacrifice” (no major spoilers, if you haven't read it yet) was originally another source of that story's title and was set right before the scene where John talks to Molly for the first time; about 500 words in, I decided to cut it because I felt it disrupted the flow and didn't quite fit with the more somber, quieter scenes and tone, but I really liked what I had at that point, so after a little expansion, here it is. Let's not forget that not all templars are as open-minded and warmhearted as John and Cullen. (What can I say – there's something rather appealing about seeing John get angry. There's a reason that tag exists!)_

It was just another morning in the templar quarters, but it didn't feel that way to John. He wasn't scheduled for duty until later that afternoon, but had decided to get ready early and just do some patrolling anyway. Anything where he wasn't required to sit quietly and let his mind wander – let himself think about what had happened.

As he washed up and hitched his armor on, he listened quietly to bits and pieces of conversation among his brothers.

“They finally finished tallying up how many mages died,” someone said. “I forget the exact number, but it was in the hundreds. Rather high.”

John closed his eyes for a moment.

“That many?” another templar said. “I'm surprised it wasn't more. A thousand, more like.”

“I'm sure Irving and Greagoir were surprised, too. Of course, Irving would say one dead mage is too many, and Greagoir would agree.”

_You've got that right_ , John thought bitterly. _Especially when that mage was..._

His teeth clenched his lip and he shook his head. No, best not to think about that now. Or ever again.

There was a scoff. “Irving is a sentimental fool. Greagoir would agree with that, too.”

“Oh yes, though not for that reason, I hope.” The first templar sounded slightly wary now. “I suppose we're lucky the death toll wasn't higher, but still...hundreds of mages. Pretty astonishing, isn't it?”

“Perhaps.” The second templar coughed. “But they were just a small sacrifice.”

John froze. He couldn't move or speak for a solid ten seconds. Then he whirled around to see who had made that comment.

It was Ser Gerrard, a templar several years younger than John, and with whom he had never been particularly friendly. He was slightly taller than John and good-looking, though not memorably so; you'd likely spot him in a crowd, admire him for a moment, then forget him once your gaze had moved on to someone more interesting. John approached him calmly, deliberately.

“Gerrard,” he said coolly, “would you care to repeat what you just said?”

Gerrard looked at him, apparently genuinely confused. “Excuse me?”

John's tone rivaled the sharp, cold steel of his blade. “What did you just call the mages who died?”

Gerrard shrugged. “Just a small sacrifice.”

A long moment of quiet passed between them.

Slowly, John looked around at his brothers-in-arms, his comrades, his friends. “Did everyone hear that?” he asked, his voice rising in volume if not emotion. “Gerrard thinks the deaths of hundreds of mages were _small_.”

His tone made it clear: agree at your own peril. The quiet between John and Gerrard that passed as they stared at each other slowly spread to the others in the room, as they ceased their own conversations and turned to the older and younger templar staring each other down. All eyes were fastened on them, others quickly stepping away on seeing the fire in John's eyes, contrasted with Gerrard's icy gaze.

“Would it still be small to you,” John asked, his voice dangerously quiet, “if we were speaking of the deaths of our own brothers?”

“Certainly not!” Gerrard blustered.

“And why not?” John demanded. “The numbers are almost the same, are they not? Isn't that right, Ryall?” he asked the templar Gerrard had formerly been speaking with.

Ryall merely nodded, biting his lip in apprehension. John tapped his foot, waiting for an answer. Gerrard, however, was more than ready.

“Because,” he said, his tone piercing, “when an insect flies too close, you swat it before it can sting you.” He took a step closer to John. “And you don't shed a tear for its death; it deserved what it got for doing what came naturally.”

“You're comparing the deaths of people to the deaths of insects?” John was incredulous.

Gerrard shrugged again. “For once, you may be right. Perhaps they don't deserve such a lofty comparison. Not as much as they did their deaths, anyway.”

There might have been a few gasps in the crowd, but John didn't hear them. He couldn't hold back any longer. His next words burst forth in pure, blind rage.

“They _died,_ Gerrard! They weren't just mages, they were _people!_ The Maker's children, just as you and I are! They breathed, they lived, they loved, they fought with every last bit of their strength until the end! None of them deserved their fate. _None_. And in spite of it all, those who are left have agreed to fight for this country when the time comes, a country that treats them like criminals simply for their Maker-given gifts. When _they_ fight for _your_ freedom, will you call _their_ sacrifice small?”

A footstep would have thundered in the silence that fell.

Gerrard appeared stunned at first, then his blandly handsome features twisted into a defiant sneer. “You _cared_ for those abominations in the making, didn't you, Watson?”

“They were _not_ abominations, not until the end,” John spat back, “and yes, I did care for them, if only to the extent that it was my duty to protect them! As it is yours, and that of everyone in this room! We all swore an oath before the Maker and His Bride, and we failed to uphold it. So forgive me if I don't appreciate your referring to the people we should have protected as _sacrifices_. To what end, may I ask? Generally a sacrifice has some wider benefit!”

“And it did!” Gerrard responded. “Those who died were too weak to resist their natural calling, as host to the demons whose home they carry within from their birth! They did not deserve the benefits of education and protection granted them here.”

“Yes,” John retorted, “if by 'protection' you mean 'imprisonment'.”

A small stir went up. Gerrard glared at John.

“That may be your _opinion_ of this place, Watson, but it has no bearing on what we are discussing. You have been a templar too long. Your memory is failing. You seem to have forgotten that we cannot let our feelings dictate our duty!”

“I am _not_ just a templar and instrument of the Chantry, Gerrard,” John fired back, “any more than you are. It may be the life I've chosen, but it's not all that I am, any more than those mages were simply abominations lying in wait – and unlike us, they did not choose their lot in life. Forgive me for being _human_ as I was born to be, and not being able to dismiss those hundreds of innocent lives as easily as you can. We had one duty to uphold – protecting them – and we _failed_ that. And if you don't feel even slightly upset about _that_ , you don't deserve to wear that armor.”

He whirled on his heel and hurried furiously out of the room, pushing past those in his way. He heard neither the small murmur of agreement that rose from some of his brothers, nor one of them saying to Gerrard, “Don't let Greagoir or Hadley hear you talk like that, or you'll get much worse than him storming out of the room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fun fact: While we're on what motivated John's last goodbye, Finn was originally the one who talked to him and convinced him (unknowingly) to go see Sherlock; as much as I love Finn, I tried writing that scene for close to half an hour and got nowhere. Then I thought of Molly, realized she deserved a better introduction well before the end, and decided to give her a shot. I finished the scene in five minutes. Sometimes one little change is all it takes._


	3. A Hero's Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reads Arya's newly published Blight journals. Sherlock feigns disinterest – until he finds something else to enjoy about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I actually came up with this idea the day I posted “A Friend in Need”, if you can believe that. So it's been on the back burner for a while. A_ long _while._

It was a quiet morning in 221B. Sherlock was sprawled half-asleep on the couch in the main room, legs dangling inelegantly over one side, having been too exhausted to walk the six feet to their bedroom after another long night of experimentation and study. As he stirred at the sound of the door opening, he was so tired he barely reacted when John walked in carrying two books and a bag of food, setting them all down to prepare some tea.

“Good morning,” John said cheerfully, setting two filled cups on the table next to the couch before dropping a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

“Where have you been?” Sherlock said in as demanding a voice as he could muster – which was not terribly so, given his current state of consciousness.

“The bookseller's.” John picked up the books he'd walked in with before sinking into the couch's endlessly deep and soft cushions, just fitting into the scant space between Sherlock's head and the couch arm. “Fortunately for posterity, Arya Surana kept journals religiously from well before her conscription right up until the night before the march on Denerim. They've been compiling and editing them over the last several months, and were just published a few weeks ago. Since then the presses have been going nonstop – the ink's barely dry on these copies.” He held up a decently-sized hardcover book, colored a soft shade of silver-grey and with a light blue ribbon bound inside as a marker. _A Hero's Journey: In Her Own Words_ was spelled out on the cover in matching blue script.

“That was where you disappeared to yesterday,” Sherlock replied, attempting to sound as accusatory as possible, and with just as much success as he had being demanding.

“Yep. They were sold out then, but because I was one of the few customers actually buying other things, the bookseller told me she was expecting a new shipment first thing tomorrow – well, today. So I made sure I was there in time. Here's your copy, by the way.”

“Why did you buy me a copy?”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, the last time I loaned you a book, it was returned to me covered in doodles and annotations and had more mysterious stains than a set of sheets from The Pearl. I'm never lending you books ever again.”

“No, I meant why did you think I would want to read the incredibly uninteresting chronicles of her brief life in her own insipid, self-indulgent words? She barely interested me when she was alive. Why should she interest me any more now that she's dead?”

John was not at all bothered by this comment. “Let's not forget that were it not for her, you and I might never have met. And anyway, all the proceeds from sales are going to the Denerim alienage, by order of the king. The more we can support that, the better.” He paused, thinking. “And hey, you never know. Our lives haven't exactly been dull and quiet, have they?” _Thank the Maker_ , he thought. “Maybe someone would be interested in reading the stories of _our_ lives.” His eyes brightened. “Hey, there's an idea...”

“As you like,” murmured Sherlock.

John tucked the notion and tentative approval away to mull over later. “You know,” he said, his thoughts wandering, “the bookseller said the reason these took so long to be published was because all her diaries, like most of her possessions, were tainted. Only Grey Wardens were allowed to handle or even see them. Also helped maintain Warden secrecy, I suppose.”

Sherlock perked up, suddenly interested. “If that's so...where do you think the original journals are?”

“The royal archives, probably. Why...?” John trailed off, noticing Sherlock's suddenly awake, hopeful expression.

“Sherlock, _no_. We are not breaking into the royal archives to steal her diaries on the off-chance that they _might_ carry traces of the taint. If you want to experiment with darkspawn blood – and I'm not saying that I'm okay with it now – you are going to have to find it elsewhere.”

“You're no fun.” Sherlock's eyes slipped closed again.

“One of us can't be.” John set the book down and gently lifted Sherlock up. “Now, let's get you into bed. You can't be comfortable sleeping like that.”

Sherlock barely protested as John carefully eased him to his feet and walked him – with some difficulty as he was practically dangling off of John's shoulder – to their bed. After settling his partner in, John gave him a quick kiss. “I'll bring in your tea. And the book, if you feel like it later. I'll be in the living room so I won't bother you. Now get some proper rest.”

A minute or so later, with actions suited to his words, John returned to his spot. Settled back on the couch, he sipped his tea and turned to King Alistair's foreword, which read, in part:

 

_Not long after we became friends, I asked her why she was so fond of keeping journals. She told me that one of the only things she'd taken with her from the alienage were the stories of elven folklore her mother had told her, passed on from her mother's mother. She went on to say that whenever she was lucky enough to hear a story from Dalish lore, she felt a connection with the father she never knew. No matter what she did in her life, she said, she was determined to pass on her story. I am fortunate and honored to have been even a small part of her tale, and thankful that I can pass it on to you._

_Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden_

 

John smiled and started to read.

 o~O~o

John found _A Hero's Journey_ to be a cracking good read. Even though most of Arya's adventures were a matter of public record, the personal details and perspective offered in her own words lent new significance and context to what she and her ragtag band had experienced. He laughed at her descriptions of her Crow and Qunari companions, gasped at her account of a battle with a High Dragon, shuddered when reading of her encounter with a Broodmother, and grinned like a fool when she wrote of playing with and attempting to train her beloved mabari.

He sobered at her entries detailing the destruction of the Circle, which were shorter and fewer in number than those covering other events.

And he always fell silent when he came to the entries concerning her bard companion, Leliana. After a chance meeting, and against insurmountable odds, the two had fallen deeply in love. Arya had spared no details in these entries (aside from what John was sure had been edited out), and John was mesmerized as he read of Arya's skepticism at their first meeting, her growing anguish over her developing feelings, their very-much-not-planned first kiss, and the magic of their first night together.

He sighed, thinking of her ultimate fate, and how wise she had been to never take any moment they had together for granted. Oh, he had been lucky indeed to have a second chance after learning that painful lesson. Though he was only about three-quarters of the way through the book, he was already amazed at how much she had experienced, how many places she'd been, how many things she'd done, with and without her love by her side.

_And she had the same number of hours in the day that Sherlock and I do. What's our excuse?_

He nodded quietly. Yes, perhaps it was time for another adventure. And today was as good a day as any to start. But first he wanted to finish reading.

He had just finished the entry she had made right before departing for the fateful Landsmeet when the bedroom door flew open. He jumped at the sound, almost dropping his book.

“John!”

“Sherlock? Is something wrong?” Goodness, how long had he been reading? His stomach started growling as he came back to reality. Sherlock was wide-awake, bright-eyed and invigorated again.

The mage rushed over to him. “John, John, did you read the passages about the Black Vials?”

“The Black Vials?” John frowned, quickly skimming back over what he had read so far. “Oh, right, the Black Vials. They were mostly footnotes, really. What about them?”

“They never found the sixth vial!”

“Huh?”

“The sixth vial! When they found the first one in the Circle Tower, there were six thumbprints on the note. They only found four more after that! And she had reason to believe the last one was in Denerim, but they were never able to find it!” Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders. “Don't you see, John? It might still be out there! _We_ could find it! We could find it today!”

John stared at him for a moment. “And even assuming it wasn't destroyed in the siege or subsequent reconstruction...what would we do if we did?”

“Just what Surana did. Do try and keep up, John.” Sherlock's eyes were shining. “Fight a revenant, that's what.”

“A _revenant?_ Sherlock, are you – no, never mind, silly question. Yes, you _are_ mad,” John said affectionately, stroking his partner's chin. “So that's what you're suggesting we do today? Go on a mad quest into the back alleys of Denerim to find the final revenant and defeat it?”

Sherlock nodded, hopeful and eager. “Please, John?”

_You wanted an adventure today, didn't you?_ John laughed, smiling warmly so Sherlock would know he wasn't mocking him. “All right –” He was promptly cut off by Sherlock kissing him.

The moment was interrupted by the ex-templar's belly providing the only dissenting voice. When they finally came up for air, John asked with a grin, “But can we at least have some lunch first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the hooded figures, the revenants. _On the one hand, I love how challenging those fights are. On the other hand, that sixth one makes me very, very cautious about randomly wandering around Denerim early on. :P_  
>  _Oh boys, it's really not wise for just two people to take on a revenant. But then again, neither of you is exactly known for making_ sane _decisions. If they can't find it this time, perhaps they'll consider inviting Lestrade and another friend on their next attempt..._


	4. A Tidy Profit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let me get this straight,” John said slowly. “All this money you've been making – it's from selling these people – to whom _we_ owed money – something that would cost them next to nothing to make on their own?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _A friend and I were recently discussing the occasional difficulties of writing fic for video games. We agreed on one surefire plot bunny: poking fun at game mechanics!_  
>  _The only exploit I've ever used in_ Origins _was the money cheat. But you know, now I'm not even sure why I ever bothered. (Make your own joke about gaming the system. :P)_

“Sherlock?” John called as he walked into 221B.

Sherlock looked up from where he was seated at the kitchen table, surrounded by flasks, bowls, powders, and liquids. The sharp, earthy smells of distillation and concentrator agents were heavy in the air. “Yes, John?”

“Curious thing, Sherlock.” John came closer, setting down the bags he was carrying by the fireplace. “I stopped by the Wonders of Thedas to settle our account for this month, and the proprietor told me it was already taken care of.”

“Oh, right, I forgot to mention that.” Sherlock had already returned to his potion-making. “Paid it off yesterday.”

“How? I was ready to tell them we were going to be a little short and we'd pay the rest in a few days after my pension came in.” _Thanks to a certain_ someone's _recent_ _need for_ _extremely rare and expensive herbs_ _and animal parts_ _,_ he did not add. John picked up the ledger he'd been using to keep track of their bills. He frowned as he read over the numbers. “Did I mess this up somehow?”

“No, no, your accounting was fine.” Sherlock was crushing some herbs into powder with a mortar and pestle. “I came into some extra money yesterday, that's all.”

“Did you put it all towards our tab?”

“No. Look on the desk.”

John did, and saw Sherlock's coin purse. It was strangely heavy when he picked it up; opening it, his jaw dropped as a pile of sovereigns and silvers spilled out.

Sherlock finally looked up and smiled at him. “Dinner's on me tonight.”

John was too stunned to answer for a moment. “Have you been pickpocketing again?”

“It's not my fault if the nobles of this city are so careless with their valuables. But no. I found a much more profitable venture.”

“What?”

“This.” Sherlock spread his hands, indicating the mess of crafting equipment. Not understanding, John took a closer look. He sniffed, now detecting a familiar scent that had been mixed in and buried by the bouquet of other, stronger smells.

“Is that...lyrium?”

Sherlock held up a bowl filled with red dust in answer. John looked around and saw a flask containing several large pinches of more dust, to which Sherlock was now adding a mixture of agents. “You're making lyrium potions.”

“ _Potent_ lyrium potions, John.” Sherlock's look was slightly reproachful.

John rolled his eyes. “Fine. _Potent_ lyrium potions. That still doesn't explain your sudden riches.” Suddenly, a terrible thought dawned on him. He closed his eyes. “Please tell me you're not selling them to the templars.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Of course not.” John was relieved, till his partner added, “No profit to be made there whatsoever. They won't pay full price.”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

“That was a joke.”

John glared. “You are not _nearly_ as funny as you think you are.”

“Anyway,” Sherlock went on, unperturbed, “taking ingredient costs into account, the profit from selling just one potent lyrium potion at full value is just under twenty-two silvers. Time isn't much of a factor because a skilled herbalist can make several of these potions in less than half an hour. I sold my latest batch of more than a dozen to the Wonders of Thedas yesterday and paid off our bill with the profits. I expect to do the same next month.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” John held up a hand. “You sold lyrium potions...to the Wonders of Thedas?”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked at John oddly, seeming to wonder whether he needed his hearing checked.

“A shop staffed entirely by skilled mages?”

“Your powers of observation continue to improve.”

There was silence for almost a full minute.

“Let me get this straight,” John said slowly. “All this money you've been making – it's from selling these people – to whom _we_ owed money – something that would cost them next to nothing to make on their own?”

Sherlock nodded. “Essentially.”

“And where are you getting all these ingredients?”

“The bartender at the Gnawed Noble always has the agents and flasks in stock. The lyrium dust I have purchased from the Wonders of Thedas.”

“So,” John said, by now massaging his temples as his head began to pound from the growing absurdity, “ _you_ make a tidy sum by selling this shop an item that they could very easily make _on their ow_ _n,_ with ingredients they could literally purchase _next door_ , and sell for the _same profit_.”

“Oh, it's not just the Wonders of Thedas,” Sherlock said, clearly believing he was clarifying when in fact he was doing quite the opposite. “All the merchants in the Market District will buy these potions at full value.” When John's eyes narrowed, he repeated, “ _All_ of them.”

“Cesar and Ignacio?”

“Yes.”

“The clothing merchant?”

“Yes.”

“Gorim?”

“Yes.”

“Liselle, the flower merchant?”

“ _Yes_.” Sherlock was beginning to look bored and impatient.

“ _Wade and Herren?_ ”

Sherlock shrugged. “Wade said something about finally having the tools to work with golem armor. Herren then threw me out. I don't think I'll be selling to them again, but at that time, yes.”

John suppressed a groan. “Did you mention my name at all?”

“Briefly. In terms of how much you and I have in common with the two of them. It was rather a shock to all three of us.”

John silently ticked off another place he could never show his face in again thanks to Sherlock as his head whirled. Life with Sherlock was frequently an exercise in random, unpredictable insanity, but this...this was too much. If he was a conductor of light, then Sherlock was a reflector, shining that light on the ridiculousness of everyday life that John had never noticed before. Just what kind of world did he live in where one could honestly make money with schemes like this?

He threw up his hands. “You know what? Never mind. Just...never mind. You keep on with – with that. I'm going out for a drink.”

“At the Gnawed Noble?”

“Where else?”

“Take a couple sovereigns with you,” Sherlock offered. John snatched two from the pile on the desk and stuffed them into his pocket. As he headed for the door, Sherlock called after him, “And if you don't spend it all, use the change to buy some more flasks and distillation agent while you're there.”

John just sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh John, you really do live in a crazy world, don't you? Look at it this way – it was either Thedas or a London that's regularly dealing with terrorist attacks. Not much difference, really. You (and the rest of the cast) are just awesome enough to survive daily life in both. :P_


	5. An Alley of Fur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I offer an alternate explanation for one of my favorite _Origins_ Easter eggs as well as a certain Sherlock fanfiction cliché.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Work has been a bit stressful lately, so I needed to write something quick, light and slightly crack-y. With Halloween just around the corner (though this isn’t scary in the least :P), this seemed appropriate. Please enjoy!_  
>  _Props to my dear Stef for the title, the reasoning behind which will shortly become apparent, and for continuing to faithfully read, even when I produce something like...this. *g* If you’re not familiar with the Easter egg that inspired this ficlet (my second-favorite after the “Axe in the Stump” egg, and just as hard to trigger), there’s a brief explanation in the end notes. Anyone who’s read at least a decent amount of_ Sherlock _fic, though, should recognize the cliché._

In retrospect, John realized later, as with many occurrences in his life involving Sherlock, he really ought to have seen it coming.

It began, as most things also did with Sherlock, somewhat innocently enough. John had been writing letters at his desk while Sherlock lay prone on the couch, idly tossing a small fireball almost to the ceiling and catching it. (John had long since given up trying to convince him of the folly of literally playing with fire in a _wooden_ building, though Mrs. Hudson, Maker bless her, had not.)

“Do you remember Mr. Wiggums, John?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Mr. Wiggums? Of course I do,” John said, not looking up from his paper. “Best mouser the Tower ever had. Well, up until he killed three templars, anyway.”

Curious now, he turned to look at Sherlock. “Why are you bringing him up?”

Sherlock shrugged, doing his best to look innocent. “No reason.”

John narrowed his eyes. “If you even _think_ about summoning a demon to possess some poor stray…”

“Now why would I want to do something like that, John?”

John rolled his eyes. “No reason. Absolutely _none_.”

Sherlock’s fingers curled upwards; the little fireball came dangerously close to the ceiling. John raised his hand and snuffed it out with a quick gesture. He merely raised an eyebrow in response to Sherlock’s pout. The ex-templar had barely turned around again when he heard a crackle and saw another ball-shaped shadow moving up and down the wall.

So that had been just another typical afternoon conversation between them, and John forgot about it entirely. Until the books began piling up - and not just any books. Books on cat anatomy, on spirit magic, even on scouting strategies of wars past. John knew that Sherlock was often bored without the rigor of his Tower studies to occupy his days, but the eclectic nature of even this collection couldn’t help but seem a bit odd.

Then certain foods began to disappear from the cupboards.

“Sherlock, are we out of milk _again?_ ” John demanded at almost the same moment Sherlock announced, “John, we’re out of milk.”

“How? We just went to the market two days ago! How can this happen three weeks in a row?”

Sherlock shrugged, tilting his head towards John. John scoffed. “Please, I don’t take that much milk in my tea. Nor that much tea, for that matter!”

He’d expected Sherlock to burst out with a long series of calculations and explanations of how they could, indeed, run out of milk in just two days with only two people drinking it, John’s tea habit notwithstanding - but the mage didn’t. Instead, his partner merely shrugged again, said, “It’s your turn,” and tossed their money pouch at him on his way into their bedroom, books in hand.

So that had been the end of that discussion. However, it took another trip to the market, just a few weeks later, for the mystery to finally be unraveled.

The two of them had gone together this time, both needing a variety of items from different shops, and were starting to walk home with bags in hand, talking together as usual. As they conversed, they paid no mind to where their path was taking them, until Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

“We can’t go this way,” he said.

Puzzled, John stopped and looked around, as best he could around the bags in his arms. This corner of the Market District looked fine, stone walls and all. “Why? There’s nothing here, Sherlock.”

“We have to go a different way, John.” Sherlock began to turn and walk in the opposite direction.

“What? Why? Sherlock, this is ridiculous. This way will get us home just as fast as any other.”

Sherlock looked at him hard. “ _We can’t go this way, John,_ ” he said, as if trying to make John understand that going in that direction would lead to John’s horrible, painful, prolonged death, without actually saying so.

“Fine,” John grumbled, not in the mood for an argument. “Just let me -”

As he lowered his arms, trying to shift the bags for a better grip, what he saw almost made him drop the entire load.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said slowly, “I should have said, ‘We won’t be able to go this way.’”

“Perhaps,” John murmured, staring in shock at what was blocking their path.

A row of nine cats was standing at attention a short distance in front of them, all creepily identical with scruffy orange fur, short ears, and pointed faces. Cautiously, John set down his bags and took a few steps towards them. They were alive - he heard their occasional, quiet meows - but apart from the gentle swishing of their tails, they were otherwise stock-still, their yellow eyes strangely glassy. He saw a few of their heads turn slightly, and the careful footsteps behind him made him realize they were turning to look at _Sherlock_.

He turned just as slowly to follow their gaze; Sherlock had set down his bags and was reaching into his robe to pull out a gnarled stick. As the mage moved the stick closer, John sniffed and detected the distinct smell of prune juice, in addition to an odor he hadn’t experienced since his first days in the Tower, stuck with the dirty jobs: cat urine.

“Go on,” Sherlock said quietly but firmly, making a herding motion with the stick as he approached.

The cats remained still at first as John goggled; then, as Sherlock came closer with the stick, they all turned as one and began to walk - no, _march_ , on all fours, no less - toward the market’s southeast exit.

As the meows faded into the distance, John turned back to Sherlock, staring at him in horrified awe. “Sherlock, what did you _do?_ ”

His partner shrugged and gave him a suspiciously twitchy smile. “Now you know why we’re always out of milk.”

Of all the questions that popped into John’s head, his next one addressed the least of his concerns. “But…why nine?”

Even as he asked, the answer began to dawn.

Sherlock tilted his head as John groaned in realization. “Isn’t it obvious, John? Nine lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The “Zombie Kitten Army” originated in the BioWare forums thanks to both regulars and developers. Go[here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3i5Cl3MjyGk) to see it in action. Players may need to enter the market as many as...wait for it..._ 42 _times to trigger it._  
>  _Do you think we could call these kitties the Baker Street Purr-regulars?_  
>  _...I’m sorry. (No, I’m not.)_


	6. A Proper Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Finn learn that naming babies can be tricky - and discussing them, even more so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. These two just naturally bring it out of me. :) As does OtakuElf, who inspired this ficlet with December 5 of her_ Baker Street Advent 2014 _, which you can (and should) read[here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2701046). I'm quite taken with the thought of Molly as a mum, I must admit. Also, my esteemed colleague, you were absolutely right when you said, “The dark ones help us to write the light.” :)_  
>  _As to when and where exactly this takes place (besides, obviously, some time after “A Mutual Weirdness”, which you don't need to have read beforehand), I'll let you decide. Could be little more than hopeful speculation on a quiet morning in the Tower. Could be several years down the line when the possibility is much more likely._

“I have the perfect boy's name,” Finn said suddenly.

Molly looked up to smile at him; her hair was loose from its customary ponytail, spread in a messy halo across his shoulder. “Really? What is it?”

“Allineas.”

Molly turned to look straight at him, puzzled. “Al-what now?”

“Al-lin-eas.” Finn carefully sounded it out. “He was a highly respected Tevinter scholar in the Towers Age, who coined the term 'arcanist derangement' in relation to apostates.” He grinned, obviously pleased with his genius.

Molly continued to stare. “You _can't_ be serious.”

“Of course I am! Think of it, love – our son, Allineas Cornelius Brannon Aldebrant, Esquire. It's alliterative _and_ in near-alphabetical order!” They had previously agreed, in complete seriousness, that their first son and daughter would have the appropriate grandparents' names as middle names.

“We're not naming our son after a Tevinter scholar who probably killed more than a few 'deranged arcanes' in the course of his research.”

“Ah-ah. We agreed you could name the girls and I could name the boys. Don't tell me you're reneging?”

Molly exhaled as she fell back on the pillows, knowing when to pick her battles. “Fine. I will let you name our first son Allineas... _if_ you will allow me to name our first daughter Flora.”

It was Finn's turn to stare at her. “You're not serious.”

Molly grinned at him cheekily. “Of course I am. Listen – Flora Blythe Alethea Aldebrant. It has such a nice ring to it, don't you think? And it will bring back so many wonderful memories for you every time you hear her name.”

“You don't play fair, Mrs. Aldebrant-to-be.”

“Nor do you, Mr. Aldebrant, Esquire.”

Molly laughed, and Finn joined in, as she snuggled closer to him. She loved this game of theirs. Though she wasn't pregnant and didn't plan to be for some time, they had fun bantering about the possibilities for when the time did come. It always started with one of them announcing, “I have the perfect boy's (girl's) name.”

This morning, though, Molly had to admit she wasn't enjoying the game as much as she normally did - and it had nothing to do with Finn's newest choice of name. They'd been playing it more and more often over the past several weeks, perhaps unconsciously teasing at what they were both almost ready for, and she had gotten to thinking. There was something she needed to know before their fantasies became reality.

“Finn?”

“Yes, love?”

“How would you feel if we had a child who didn't have magic?”

He turned on his side to meet her eyes, smiling tenderly, his hand lingering to trace gentle circles on her shoulder. “Any baby of ours would be magical. How could it not be, with us as parents?”

Molly propped herself on her elbow to look at him. “I'm serious, Finn. We both know that if we had a baby, there's always a chance he - or she - wouldn't be a mage. What I want to know is how you would feel about that.”

Finn was quiet for a moment. He looked at her gravely. “You know I'd love any baby of ours as much as I love you, no matter what.” He smiled and kissed her. “I wouldn't love you any less if you weren't a mage, Molly. I'd feel the same way about our children. And I know you would too, or you wouldn't be asking.”

Molly felt reassured, but she needed to know more. “And if he or she was our only child without magic? The only one left at home while everyone else went off to the Circle? Or our one and only altogether, non-magical with two mage parents and no brothers or sisters?”

“Then we'd find out what he or she did best and encourage that. Make him or her feel just as special and gifted as his or her siblings, if there are any.” He kissed her again. “Even mages are good at all sorts of things, Molly. Having or not having magic isn't the sum of who you are or what you can do. And while having magic is certainly a blessing, not having it isn't a curse. Did you really think I felt otherwise?”

“Oh Finn, I don't mean to doubt you. It's just – being a mage is so integral to who you are – who _we_ are – and we would never have met otherwise and...I didn't know how you'd feel if we had a child we couldn't teach about that.”

“Then we could teach them everything else we know unrelated to magic,” Finn said gently. “How to read, how to bake, how to learn, how to be brave, how to love…” He kissed her forehead. “Something tells me you'd be very good at the last one.”

Molly smiled. “Better than the second one, at least.”

They laughed together as he pulled her to him, rolling onto his back with her on top. She brushed a quick, teasing kiss across his lips, her forehead touching his. “You know, magical or not, I think I have the perfect boy's name.”

“Have you, now?”

“Mm-hmm. After someone we both know who's all of the above. He can read – and write – is a good learner, very brave, and very loving. He's not a mage, but has his own kind of magic. Though,” she admitted, “I don't know about his baking ability.”

“Really? What's his name, then?”

“John.”

Finn considered. “Hmm. John Cornelius Brannon Aldebrant, Esquire. I like it. It has perfect meter. The epic poets will thank us someday.”

“You know,” Molly said, cutting him off with a kiss, “you're rushing things a bit. Our son doesn't even exist yet and you're already writing epic verse about him. And when it comes to our having a baby...I want to take things nice and slow.”

“Considering we haven't even settled on a name…”

She kissed him again, parting their lips and letting their tongues touch, fingers gliding down his neck before she pulled away. “Sod the name,” she breathed into his ear.

His reply was stalled momentarily by her lips following the same questing path as her fingers. When he could speak again, he whispered, “So you don't mind Allineas, then?”

Her laughter was her only response, till it was halted by his kiss. For the rest of the morning, there was no further discussion of names. Or much talking at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I must say, it's nice to have a couple in this series who haven't had much angst in getting or staying together (especially considering what I have planned for our boys *g*). :) I've also got at least one more pairing in mind for the future; I suspect angst-wise they'll fall somewhere in the middle. We shall see..._


	7. An Open Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Finn, why is your mother writing to me with a moon tea recipe?” Much to their shared embarrassment, Molly and Finn discover another habit they have in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This is a follow-up to “A Quick Study”, but all you need to know is that Molly and Finn have started sleeping together. (A misnomer, Finn thinks, considering that there’s not much “sleeping” going on…) It was inspired by some comments made by Stef and Molly’s cheerful remark to Sherlock in_ Sign of Three _that she and Tom are “having quite a lot of sex.” (Of course, if you want to read a few thousand words of fluffy first-time smut and a thousand or so of plot in “Study”, who am I to stop you? ^_~)_  
>  _Interestingly, it turns out moon tea wasn’t the brainchild of one GRRM, if that’s the only other place you know it from; he merely made some fantasy tweaks to actual (extremely dangerous) recipes from real life. The more you know!_

It was late afternoon when Molly strolled into the library corner with a letter in hand. Finn was already there, of course, books and tea ready to go.

He smiled at her approach. “Hello, love.”

“Hello, Finn.” The smile accompanying Molly’s greeting was slight, her manner tense, and Finn’s first thought was that perhaps he’d be spending this afternoon writing a strongly-worded letter to whoever had upset her.

He looked at her, concerned. “Is something the matter, Molly?”

Molly shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s just…this letter from your mother is a bit peculiar.”

“How so?” Finn knew that, at his mother’s insistence, the two of them had begun corresponding regularly during the past month. _Florian, dear, it’s customary to meet the girl your son’s going to marry_ , she had written to him. _Since we don’t yet know when_ ( _when_ , not _if_ , he’d noted) _either of these things will happen, and I’m not getting younger any more than she is, I’d like to start now, if she’s willing_. To his delight and dismay, Molly had happily agreed. Both women seldom told him what they discussed, as was their prerogative, but when they did, it was frequently as embarrassing for him as it was enjoyable for them. He expected now would not be an exception.

“She sent me a recipe. And not for cookies this time.” Molly sat down beside him, pulled a small sheet of paper from inside the envelope she was holding and held it out. He leaned over; _Moon Tea_ , read the heading. Alongside the title was scribbled a small note: _Thought you might find this handy, dear. All my love, Thea._

“Finn,” Molly said slowly after giving him a moment to let it sink in, “why is your mother writing to me with a moon tea recipe?”

Finn bit his lip, thinking fast. “You’re not – offended, are you?”

“That she’s sharing her recipes? Of course not! You know she’s sent me a few already, so I could try cooking things that you like. This tea looks pretty interesting, actually; I’ve never seen this variation before.” Molly knew, thanks to her married sister, that a mother sharing recipes with her son’s wife was an essential step in accepting her as a daughter-in-law. She and Finn weren’t even engaged yet, nor had she even met the woman, and already Mrs. Aldebrant saw her as a daughter, which she rightly found flattering. But that wasn’t the issue here, not even close. “I just don’t understand why she’d send me _this_ particular recipe…unless…” She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed.

Finn did his best to look innocent, though he could do little about the pink creeping into his cheeks. “Uh…do you know what moon tea is used for?”

“Finn…” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “We're both expert healers; I'd be more worried if you and I _didn't_ know what moon tea does.” She looked hard at him. “You know as well as I do that moon tea is commonly used to prevent pregnancy. I may not be Sherlock, but I can put two and two together now and then.”

“Er – what do you –”

Molly crossed her arms. “How much did you tell your parents?”

Finn exhaled, as much from relief as chagrin. “Hardly anything, I swear! Well…I did tell them that we’d, well, been intimate –”

“Obviously,” Molly said, uncharacteristically dry.

“And, er, I might have mentioned that we’d found a very interesting book from the author of _The Rose of Orlais_ and we were trying a new page every week –”

Molly groaned.

“And now that I think of it, I’m fairly sure I told them about that very…stimulating discussion we had one afternoon regarding the cultural mores explored in _The Truth Behind the Stories_ , and how those traditions and beliefs manifest themselves in ancient Tevinter talismans, including those believed to stimulate fertility and sexual vitality –”

Molly quickly held up a hand for him to stop. “I think I get it.” She put down the letter and rubbed her forehead with one hand. “Look, I'm thrilled that your parents want to get to know me. I can’t wait to meet them someday. But how am I supposed to look them in the eye knowing that they know how we shagged in every corner of the library that one afternoon?”

“One section for every theme we discussed – and a few we didn’t.” Finn’s gaze grew fond and distant.

“I know.” Molly’s tone was droll. “I was there.” She allowed herself a brief smile at the memory and quickly went on, “Out of curiosity – did they mind at all, hearing about all that?”

“Well, Father didn’t have much to say, per usual, but lately he has been a bit warmer to me in his letters. Almost as warm as that bedspread of his I accidentally set on fire the day we found out I had magic.” Finn chuckled. “Mother did say she was glad that I’m happy, and that I feel like I can talk to her about anything…but that doesn’t mean I _have_ to. And I quote, ‘You really don’t have to, Florian. Please.’” He paused for a moment, but interrupted Molly before she could reply. “Hers wasn’t the only… _interesting_ reaction, though.”

Molly paled. “Who else did you tell?”

Finn shrugged. “ _I_ didn’t tell anyone else.” He looked meaningfully at her. When she stared at him blankly, he reached into an inner robe pocket and pulled out the usual sheaf of letters he kept there. Flipping through them quickly, he found the one he sought. “I received this from John about a week ago. Forgot about it till now.”

Molly was still confused as he opened the letter and began to read it.

“‘Dear Finn, Glad to hear you’re well,’ etcetera, etcetera…ah, here we are. ‘After Molly’s last few letters to him, Sherlock wants me to let you both know he’s very…happy about your active love life. I know, I know – bit not good of him to bring it up, but leave that to me. All I have to say is, it does wonders for your outlook. Trust me, we know. I’m very happy for the two of you.’” He put the letter down and raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m not the one writing to Sherlock, am I?”

Molly’s head dropped into her hands as she turned beet-red. Even with John acting as his filter, she could take a good guess at Sherlock’s reaction to her…indiscretions. “Maker’s breath, I completely forgot…I’m _so_ sorry. I didn’t give him too many details, promise – well, no more than you told your parents, anyway. He’d asked me how things were with us – you and me, that is – and I got so excited that he actually bothered to ask that I got carried away.” She looked up at him sheepishly. “Pot, meet kettle, huh?”

Finn just smiled at her, amused, before putting an arm around her and kissing her forehead. “Well, odd as this might sound, after today I don’t think we’ll need any more evidence that we’re perfect for each other – right down to our embarrassing habits.”

Molly leaned into him, pulling him into a cuddle, relieved that he wasn’t angry. They chuckled at the humor of the situation before she spoke up again. “As sweet as that is, love, this is one habit we should probably work on breaking, if we ever want any of them to talk to us ever again.”

Finn nodded. “Agreed. Any ideas?”

“Well,” Molly said slowly, “the way I see it, we have two options. The first one: we give it up for a bit. The doing, that is, not the talking. After all –” she held up a hand to quell Finn’s protest before she could finish “– we can’t tell them about our having sex if we aren't having any.”

“I think I’m leaning towards the second option,” Finn mumbled.

“Good, because so am I.” Molly grinned. “Anytime either of us starts to discuss our sex life with anyone besides each other, we get the other one to shut us up.”

Finn gave her a puzzled look. “You mean with Paralyze?”

Molly laughed. “Magic’s one way to go. I was thinking more like…distraction.” Sitting up, she pulled him into a kiss. He kissed her back immediately, enthusiastically, and before long she was practically in his lap, the two of them pressed together almost as one, their tongues teasing and exploring, hands stroking and caressing.

“Keeping our mouths busy, you mean?” he asked her breathlessly, once they’d finally pulled apart.

“And our hands,” Molly purred, as she slid hers down his chest, teasing at the fastenings of his robe. “You know, just in case we want to write to anyone.”

“Yes, of course.” He kissed her again, less thoroughly but no less passionately this time, before pulling her into a standing position. “What were we talking about again?”

Molly laughed, not caring whether he was joking or not as they began walking together. “That’s the idea.”

“Mm. Well, like all ideas, it needs exploring…”

“Indeed. And I can think of one place this idea hasn’t been explored yet.”

“Mage Weaponry?” He began guiding her to the appropriate corner.

“That’s the one.”

And explore her idea they did, for the rest of that afternoon and the next. They continued to explore, in addition to making sure Finn’s mother’s recipe didn’t go to waste, on subsequent days and nights whenever one or both of them felt the need to talk too much about how good a time they were having together.

After all, doing and showing beat out talking any day.


	8. A Word for the Wise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two couples have short conversations about words and language that are nearly as different as they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It’s been a while since I’ve done one (or two) of these. Please enjoy a drabble and a flash fic, clocking in at 100 and 250 words respectively. :)_

“Beres-taar.”

“Beres-taar,” John repeated.

Sherlock nodded. “Shield.”

“Shield.” John nodded. Slowly but surely, he was learning Qunlat. For their lesson today, Sherlock had suggested they work on words and phrases that had some meaning to John.

Now, strangely enough, Sherlock reached for John’s hands, grasping them. “Basvaarad.”

“Basvaarad.” John looked down, puzzled. “Hands?”

Sherlock smiled. “A non-qunari who is a mage’s keeper.”

It took John a moment to understand. “Is that your favorite word for me?” he teased.

“No.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hands, bringing them to his lips. “That would be kadan.”

“Kadan?”

Sherlock smiled again. “Where the heart lies.”

o~O~o

“Finn, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Molly.” Finn smiled at her.

“Do you think I was racist today?”

Finn’s quill left a large black splotch on his paper as he froze mid-sentence. “Er, what do you mean?”

“When I met Dagna and I accidentally said, ‘These shelves dwarf you a bit, don’t they?’ You know, with her being a dwarf and all. She seemed to think it was funny, but…” Molly flushed.

“So you didn’t offend her,” Finn offered.

“Maybe she was just being polite.” Molly sighed. “I did like her a lot, and she seemed to like me. I just…want to be careful for the future, you know?”

Finn thought quickly. “Molly, do you remember Ser Otto?”

“That templar who was blind, and died during the Blight? Of course. Poor fellow.”

“Well, the first time I met him, after he’d lost his sight, we discussed abominations. I asked him if he knew what to look out for, and if he saw what I meant. Do you think I was insulting him?”

“No…” Molly said slowly. A few moments later, the realization dawned on her. “Oh! So you think what you said and what I said are basically the same thing?”

Finn nodded. “Precisely.”

Molly considered. “You know, I think you might be right.” She smiled. “Thanks, love.”

He grinned at her. “Of course. I am a language expert, after all.”

“Well,” Molly said coyly, “you can practice your tongue on me anytime.”

“You know I will.”


	9. An Eternal Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you marrying her?”  
> 
> 
> Finn reflects, before and after his wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Because when you wake up at 2:00 a.m. on a work night and a fluffy little idea hits you, you get down as much as you can, then try to go back to sleep and resume at a sane hour. (Take note, people who feel it’s absolutely necessary to post fic at 4:00 a.m. :P)_  
>  _Inspired, in part, by this delightful ficlet,_[Priorities](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9656729/1/Priorities), _and written mostly to[this underrated gem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSphxF0Id1Q) of a song. I am apparently incapable of writing anything about these two that isn’t fluffier than Finn’s hated hat. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. ;)_

_“A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.”  
~ Mignon McLaughlin_

_“Trip over love and you can get up. Fall in love and you fall forever.”  
~ Anonymous_

Marrying Molly wouldn’t change anything.

If Finn had been asked, “Why are you marrying her?” — not that he ever was, since nobody in their right mind who knew him thought to question it — he would have said something along the lines of, “Because I love her and want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Simple, standard. The answer the questioner would expect to hear. But they would never hear the convoluted train of thought that had crashed through Finn’s mind before his response.

He had no doubt he wanted to marry her. But if pressed, he would have had to admit he couldn’t really explain _why_. Legally and spiritually, they would certainly reap many benefits, but putting those considerations aside, why did he want Molly to be his wife?

Yes, he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Yes, he could have listed days’ worth of reasons as to why she was the only woman for him, and how she let him know how much she loved him every moment they were together. But why take vows? Why make their love “official”? Weren’t the vows he’d made privately — to her and in his heart — enough?

He certainly wouldn’t love her any less if they weren’t being married. As for loving her more — well, every new day they’d shared since they’d first gotten together showed him just how much more he could love her still. They had long discussed and planned on doing all the things couples normally did when sharing a life: building a home, raising a family, having adventures, staying together till the very end. He couldn’t imagine doing all that with anyone but her. Minor legalities aside, which could easily be circumvented, they didn’t need to be married to do any of that.

So why did he want to marry her at all?

Well, questions aside, it wasn’t a complicated process, certainly. She’d walk down the aisle, beautiful as always, they’d exchange vows and rings, kiss and then it would be done. One moment she wouldn’t be his wife, and the next, she would be. Why not, if that was all it took?

(Somehow, though, he didn’t think Molly would much appreciate that particular sentiment.)

Then, after the wedding and the interminable reception where they’d thank everyone they needed to thank, he’d take her to bed, and they’d make love as they always did, as he always made love to her. The feelings between them would be just the same. He wouldn’t want her — need her — any less than on all the other nights when she hadn’t been his wife.

He’d fall asleep next to her as he always did, and they’d wake up and carry on with their lives the next morning, and every morning after that. Still in love, still together.

No, marrying Molly wouldn’t change anything.

o~O~o

Marrying Molly had changed everything.

If Finn had been asked, “Why did you marry her?” — not that he ever was, since nobody in their right mind who knew them thought to question it — he would have said something along the lines of, “Because I’ll always love her and want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Simple, standard. The answer the questioner would expect to hear. But they would never know about the convoluted tangle of emotions that had snared Finn’s heart before his response.

He had no doubt he wanted to marry her. But despite his extensive vocabulary, command of multiple languages — including dead ones — and the linguistic studies that had been his life’s work, he found himself utterly unable to explain _why_. Legal and spiritual benefits aside, all he had to go on was _feeling_ , the sheer flood of emotion that swelled his heart to bursting at the mere thought of the two of them joined together for life.

No, he hadn’t always known he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. No, not even when they first kissed, or first made love, or when he first realized he was falling for her. It wasn’t until the happiest day of his life — well, until today, anyway — when she had told him she loved him, too. He had known then, known that he would take vows with her in every language and custom he knew just for the chance to make their love official and be with her forever — if she’d have him, too, of course.

It wasn’t just that he wanted Molly to be his wife. More than that, he wanted to be her husband.

He had long since learned that yes, it was possible to love her even more than he already did. But now that they were married, he finally realized just how deep that love ran. He found himself stealing glances at her — when he wasn’t lost in her gaze, that is — scarcely believing that this vibrant, beautiful, tender, strong, loving woman was his _wife._ He was just as much hers as she was his. This was the woman with whom he would share his life, build a home, raise a family, have adventures, stay with till the very end. He couldn’t imagine doing all that with anyone but her. They didn’t need to be married to do any of that…but then again, that wasn’t why he had married her.

He hadn’t just wanted to marry her. He had _needed_ to marry her.

He still couldn’t wrap his head around how simple the whole process had been. She’d walked down the aisle, more beautiful than he’d ever seen her before, they’d exchanged their vows and rings, kissed and then it was done. One moment, they hadn’t been married, and the next, they had been. Why hadn’t they done this sooner, if that was all it took?

(Somehow, he was sure Molly would agree with at least the first part of that particular sentiment.)

Then, after the wedding and the blur of a reception where they thanked everyone they needed to thank, they went to bed, and made love as they never had before. The feelings between them now were familiar and yet brand-new, fresh with the knowledge that they’d promised, before the Maker and everyone they loved, to cherish and honor each other forever. They wanted each other — needed each other — with an intensity they had never felt on any other night, on all the nights when they hadn’t been husband and wife.

They fell asleep side by side, and when he woke the next morning with her in his arms, smoothing her hair away from her face, he found himself falling in love again as if for the first time, thrilled with the revelation that every morning from now on was going to be just like this, for the rest of their lives. Still falling, still together.

Yes, marrying Molly had changed everything.


End file.
